


We CAN NOT do that again

by Theo_Lannister



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Jon Snow is Hot, M/M, Myrcella isn't a Bastard, Shameless Smut, Smut, Tommen isn't a Bastard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-07-06 03:38:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15877743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theo_Lannister/pseuds/Theo_Lannister
Summary: The Elder Starks have lived in King's Landing for about 3 months. In which time, they find that they may be the two most eligible Bachelors yet.And who is Jon to say no to the Princess?





	1. 1: Jon I

**Author's Note:**

> Last Weekend, I wrote a 300,000 word writing about Jon and Myrcella falling in love. 
> 
> Then my computer froze and it all disappeared.
> 
> So now I am rewriting this as a one-shot because I can do what I want.
> 
>  
> 
> (Also, I made everyone older so it is less creepy)

"I swear, this is the last time I'm doing this."

 

That Laugh. That damn Laugh. Jon stopped tying his pants to turn and face her. Her long, blonde hair was at in the nape of her neck. It seemed to be in the way of her hands, but she didn't seem to care. She laid back down on the bed, her back arching slightly. She looked at Jon, he eyes the deep blue of her Father, like lightning captured in glass. Like her father's eyes, they were laughing.

 

"You said that last time, Snow. And the time before that, and-"

 

"And the time before that, yes I know. But I'm serious this time. You are going to Dorne within the Moon, and I doubt my Father would let me go with you. Princesses shouldn't be with bastards in hidden rooms in secret halls. We have to stop this." Jon tried to sound confident. And he knew that if he didn't look at her, he would stay confident. He felt a tingle and looked down. She had cupped his penis through the pants. "Damn you, Ella."

 

He could  _feel_ her smirk. That look she got were she got  _exactly_ what she wanted and there was nothing he could do to stop her. "Now hang on. Since when could a bastard call a Princess by an affectionate nickname?" Jon cursed himself internally. Why did he call her Ella? "So, are we going to talk about protocol, or do you want to fuck again?"

 

"We can't. Our excuse is that we are meeting Sansa for tea, and if we are late,  _again,_ walking in arm and arm, both disheveled, someone will be bound to notice-" She had planted her lips around his, interrupting him mid-word. 

 

He hadn't noticed, but she had stopped putting on her shift and had instead ripped it off. She looked at him, her azure eyes smiled, her breasts pert, her nipples erecting. He undid his pants and positioned himself above her. This wasn't the first time they had fucked, and he had learned her rhythm. He started fondling her breasts, tracing a circle around her nipple. He heard her start to moan, but he planted a kiss on her before she got the chance. He started kissing, a light nibble, tracing down her jaw and shoulders. He worked his way down. He began to countdown in his head, from sixty. At forty-five he increased in speed. At thirty, Myrcella started loudly moaning. At fifteen, he felt her come. And at zero, he followed suit. 

 

He exited her, and flopped beside her in the bed, both of them breathing heavily. 

 

"You lasted longer this time." Myrcella would speak more beautifully than the singers when she wanted, yet her Father's bluntness for words came when she needed. Her voice was husky, effort thick in her voice, "Should we go have tea with your sister, then?"

 

"I suppose we should"

 

* * *

 

 

Jon had left the chamber before she had. He couldn't have a repeat of last time, so him leaving made more sense. Besides, being caught sweaty was common for a man at arms in training, so no one would bat an eye if he was. Besides, he often got lost. He walked to the heavy stone door on his right and heaved against it. He felt the wall begin to give and then felt it open entirely. The gargoyle in the Hand's Tower was of an unattractive design, to make sure no one man paid it enough attention to gauge it's true meaning. How Myrcella had learned such a chamber even existed was beyond him, much less how no one had caught him entering yet. 

 

Until he heard the sound of a book being dropped.

 

Arya Stark, all five feet of angry northerner present, stood with her eyes wide open, stared openly at him. Both sat there, unmoving, totally surprised to see the other. "Jon, Dear, why haven't you closed the door yet?"

 

Myrcella Baratheon was as clever as her mother, but in some circumstances, shared her father's total lack of judgment.

 

Jon slammed the Gargoyle shut, before glaring at Arya. "Not a Word."

 

"Who was that in there? And how long has that Gargoyle been able to move?"

 

"Not a Word, Arya, or so help me I'll give Needle to some southern Knight."

 

Arya looked at him, gears turning in her head."Only if you let me go in later when your... friend leaves."

 

"Deal."

 

"Deal."

 

Jon nodded and began to leave.

 

* * *

 

Jon had sat down and had been idly chatting with Sansa for less than a minute when Myrcella walked in.

 

She had changed dresses, Jon noted. The White morning dress he had met he in had been replaced with one of gold, with a healthy addition of Ebony and Onyx. Her Golden hair had been braided, in a half braid, that reached to her exposed shoulders, when Jon froze.

 

A mark, a small, red mark, was on her perfect collar bones. Jon had seen the girls leave Theon's chamber, with similar marks. Hell, even Theon himself had worn a few.

 

But no one had ever given Princess Myrcella Baratheon, Lady of Summerhall, a hickey, and Jon did not want to be the first.

 

But when did Jon ever get what he wanted?


	2. 2: Myrcella I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Tea time with Sansa!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of positive feedback, so here you guys go!

_Okay,_ Myrcella thought to herself,  _Sansa looks up to me as a goddess. This isn't the first time that I've had tea with her and her brother. I got this._

 

The Conversation began pleasantly enough. Sansa had met a couple of Knights and Lords coming in for the Tourney. Some uncle of some type from the Vale, Lord Bronze Yohn Royce, or his son, Myrcella couldn't tell. Sansa had a habit of eating Lemon Cakes a bit too fast when she was excited, which was exasperated by how quickly she was talking. There was mention of some Summer Islander, with his bright feather cloak who had challenged a Stormlander to a duel today, and that she and Arya would go see the Duel tomorrow, although, for very different reasons, she guessed. 

 

 _Arya, that has to be who that voice was. Sansa knows me too well, and she's worse at holding a secret than Tommen. If she heard my voice, I would know._ Myrcella silently mused.  _That Arya, she is more loyal to Jon than anyone in the world,_ _she wouldn't even bat an eye if Jon killed someone, as long as he asked her nicely._ Myrcella thought on that for a moment, before disregarding it entirely. What little Myrcella knew of Arya came from snippets heard by her father and Lord Stark, or from Jon.

 

With that thought, she turned and looked at Jon. His hair was as it normally was, she supposed. So dark a brown it was almost black, like his sister's. And his eyes, dark and grey, as if cut from stone, but smooth, and oddly calming. She remembered when she first met him.

 

Her Father had found Jon as an oddity. He'd never met Jon before Winterfell, so her father did what he did whenever he found a new amusement, focus entirely on it with an unhealthy obsession. Thankfully for Jon, this had been aimed more at his mother and Lord Stark than Jon, so he was saved from the brunt of the enthusiasm. One could insult Robert Baratheon, and almost all of those jabs would be accurate, but no one could say he wasn't charismatic. So when he told his life-long best friend to bring his Eldest Sons south with him, Eddard had no choice but to accept. 

 

She snapped back to the present, looking at Jon again, she noticed someone peculiar. He was staring at her Chest!  _Damn it, Jon! You'll give us away!_ Myrcella thought angrily until she looked down. All across her chest and lower neck, were hickeys. She looked back at him, the feeling of alarm now mutual. On his own chin and jaw,  _a jaw that could cut through plate_ she mentally added, was covered in its own marks. Well, covered was an overstatement, there were at most sixteen between the two, but that was still far too much for a princess and bastard to share.

 

"My Grace? My Grace?" 

 

Myrcella noticed her name being called and broke eye contact with Jon. Sansa was naive and trusting, but she wasn't stupid, and if the marks themselves weren't a dead give away, the staring would. "Yes, Sansa?" Myrcella said with confidence and only a  _hint_ of worry.

 

"I was asking what you thought of your betrothal?"

 

That pulled Jon out of his trance as well, and the Seven damn him, he blurted out "What?"

  
It wasn't a scream, yell or other such explosive response. No, it was more like a man learning he had hours to live, or that a loved one had died. Just rage, mixed with silence. Myrcella couldn't stop herself, she slapped him in the face. Not hard, but enough to get his attention. She just needed to get him to NOT say anything rash.

 

Myrcella looked over at Sansa, trying to replace her own look of shock and confusion with the calm discipline of the Princess, "I'm sorry, I didn't know I was betrothed. Lord Snow, please forgive my outburst, I was simply too overrun with emotion."

 

Myrcella knew she would be betrothed, eventually. The fact that she was seventeen and "Unclaimed" was bizarre in its own right, but her father had never broached the subject, and her mother was, well she was Cersei. Dealing with the fact that her "Little Prince" was no longer little, and preferred his father's less hands-on parenting. over her own. 

 

"Well, I'm not supposed to tell you. TO be honest, I'm not even supposed to know, I overheard... my father..."  _Oh, Gods, she noticed!_ Myrcella knew it, Sansa's eyes were flashing over Jon and Myrcella, narrowing in confusion, then widening with shock. "And he... actually, I remembered I have to go to the Sept. Sorry for leaving, good day."

 

The small latched gate that connected to the Godswood Gazebo was closed, Sansa hiked up her skirt, and then she was gone. "Guards, leave us temporarily," Myrcella called out, followed by the sound of clattering mail and hard leather bumping. A minute or so later, and it was silent.

 

Jon leaned forward, and banged his head on the table, levaing his forehead laying next to his silverware. They let out a sigh, simultaneously.

 

Myrcella felt a sense of laughter growing inside her until she began to giggle. It was low, under her breath, barely auditory. But it picked up until she was full belly laughing, not unlike her father. Also, like her father, the laughter was intoxicating, and soon Jon was laughing too. Nothing was funny, but sometimes you just need to laugh into the hopeless void.

 

The laugh trailed off into a deep breath, leading to Myrcella and Jon making eye contact. "So..." Jon began, "I guess this is over now?"

 

"No, Jon, don't you get it? Sansa will tell your father, that little rule follower, and then we'll be exposed."

 

"Yeah, Ella, that's a bad thing."

 

"Is it? I can't have a betrothal if I'm caught sleeping around with a bastard, can I?" 

 

"You forgot one piece of the puzzle; You Mother."

 

"Now why would we tell her?" Myrcella hadn't actually thought of Lady Cersei at all, but she had a plan forming. It may not be a good plan, but it was a plan none the less, and if she thought about it too hard, she would mess it up. Better to run with it.

 

"How about... We tell my Father. Sansa can't tell the King if I tell him first. We just need to keep her away from Lord Eddard."

 

"Oh, I can handle it. Am I dismissed from Tea?" Jon asked, with a mock Reach accent.

 

"Not without giving a princess her due," Myrcella responded in an equally extravagant voice.

 

Jon walked over to her seat and kissed her. Not on the hand, as courtly gestures demanded, but instead on the lips. She felt a bit of his tongue sneaking into her own mouth. She pulled back slightly, "No, not yet," Myrcella warned, "Or I may slap you again!"

 

"Of Course, My lady."

 

* * *

 

 

His Lord Majesty, King Robert of House Baratheon was seated in the solar when Myrcella entered. She had just met with Jon in the hall, who had seemed to have sprinted there. Normally, Jon wouldn't have been allowed within feet of her unless he had clearance from the royal family. Ser Oakheart made sure of that. But when she asked for a cup of lemon water from the kitchen before sneaking out of her room through the Gargoyle, she had slipped from him.

 

"Daughter! Nephew! How good to see you, here, have some wine." Robert Baratheon began too pour into two goblets sitting neatly on the table. From Myrcella's knowledge on the subject, he was not adding the appropriate amount. But who was she to judge her illustrious father?

 

"Now ye must 'ave called me fer something special if ya skipped past your mother to do it," Robert, said, gesturing to Myrcella, before pointing to Jon with the cup, "And you skipping your father."

 

"Well, you see," Jon began. Myrcella knew Northerners, and she knew Jon better. He was not one to give a persuasive speech. A rallying war cry, sure, but not something like this. 

 

"I'm the lady of Summerhall, I already have my own keep and lands," Myrcella took over, "so if I marry, this person will have to be below my rank, or else I'll have to give up the family seat."

 

"So we were thinking," Jon took up, "That perhaps I should-"

 

Jon never finished, as Ser Arys Oakheart, in full heavy steel burst through the door, yelling "The Princess is Miss-"

 

Ser Arys looked around, spotted Myrcella, and finished with "-ing..."

 

"Well clearly she isn't, you damn fool!"

 

"You know what, we'll talk about this later." Myrcella rose from the table, "Come on, Ser Arys."


	3. 3: Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's petty distractions

Sansa had barely managed to return to gather he thoughts.

 

"Oh my gods, oh my gods," she started muttering to herself, "My brother... my bastard Brother... he's... he's fucking the princess..." This was all wrong! The Gallant Warrior could end up with the Princess, but only after he marries her under the king's eye. And it was not at all like the stories in literally any other way. Jon wasn't a knight, nor had he gone under any trials or tribulations. She had to tell someone, anyone.

 

The next person Sansa met was Arya. Normally, she wouldn't tell Arya anything, but she couldn't hold it in. Arya was striding towards her, when Sansa near yelled to her, "Jon's fucking the Princess!"

 

Luckily, they were in the Hand's Tower, with only the two of them in there. Surprisingly, the look that crossed Arya's face was less horror and more of a sense of understanding. "So  _that's_ who's voice I heard."

 

"Wait, you knew!" Sansa asked, more surprised than when she originally learned of the situation.  
  


"I didn't know, I guessed. In fact, I think I know where they did it." Arya replied, with a smirk.

 

"Show Me."

 

So they walked, Arya and Sansa, to the most boring statue Sansa had ever seen. "Here, help me with it please," Arya asked, before tugging on its wing. Sansa did the same, before a draft of warm air burst through the open door. Sansa and Arya walked in. A small hallway that leads down to a bedchamber, which in turn lead into more darkness. Sansa heard something.

 

"Sorry Sansa, thank you, Arya." It was Jon's voice, followed by the Gargoyle closing in her face.

 

"No. You did not side with Jon! You locked your own sister in a  _cave_?"

 

"Oh come on Sansa, this is less than a cave than the Crypts. It'll be an adventure."

 

"No Arya, that's a holy place, this place is filled with spiders."

 

"Well if you want to wait for that door to open, fine by me. I'm going to find a way to the great hall."

 

Sansa stood there still until Arya began to leave. Cavern or no, Sansa didn't want to be alone in here, and thus she followed.

 

To her, it felt like they were walking for hours when it was probably only less than one when Sansa and Arya saw torchlight, and voices. "Oh yes... These tunnels cover the whole palace. Did you know that Maegor the Cruel had every worker of the keep killed, so only a Targaryen would no the Palace?" A sweet voice asked, "Or at least, that's what he intended. If Aerys knew the palace, I would doubt your blade would ever find him."

 

"Shut up, Eunuch."

 

"I mean no disrespect, Ser Jaime, merely expressing my love of History."

 

"Why did you tell my Neice about this place?"

 

"well, I suppose you must ask her. She needed a bedroom, and a discrete one at that, and I didn't want any other poor, unfortunate people to see the princesses dishonor-" Lord Varys and Ser Jaime had come into a sconce's light at this point, and Jaime suitably began to choke the eunuch upon the mention of Myrcella. 

 

"Who. Was. The. Man." Every word bled with anger.

 

Sansa had gasped at that point. Ser Jaime's right hand dropped from the Spider's throat, "Who's there?" Arya moved to sink into the shadows, but Sansa did else wise. Maybe one of them could get her out of these damned tunnels. "Ser Jaime, Lord Varys, I'm afraid I'm lost, could you please help me?"

 

"Oh for fuck's sake.." Jaime put his head in his hand, and turned away sighing, "How many Maidens have you given rooms too, Varys?"

 

Sansa began to blush, and then she heard a faint laughter.

 

"Gods, the other wolf too? What's her name, Arriane, come here!"

 

"Say, girls. How much of that conversation did you hear?" Ser Jaime asked, his finger twitching slightly around his belt pocket.

 

"It was our half-brother, Jon," Sansa said. She knew that he kept a knife on him.

 

"Damn it, Sansa," Arya responded, deadpan.

 

"Wolves are fucking like rabbits here. And all the while a spider watches. I fucking hate this city."


	4. 4: Tyrion I

"For the sake of the Seven, this better be worth it." Tyrion Lannister said, already huffing from the steep decline, "You know how busy I am, sweet brother. What will the whores think if I forget them?"

 

Jaime, quite out of character, gave no noticeable sign of enjoyment of the humor. "I'm sure they'll be fine for an evening. I just need your opinion right now."

 

That piqued Tyrion's interest. Now, what could Jaime need that he didn't want to tell Cersei? And why, specifically, was it in the dungeons of all places? To be fair, it wasn't  _really_ a dungeon, more of an undercroft, or basement, that happened to have doors that locked from the outside, with slots for... okay, it was a dungeon. But still, no prisoners were legally kept there, nor was the undercroft part of the Master of Law's domain.

 

3 flights from the main hall and about thirty paces later, Jaime stopped in front of a door, lit the candle outside, and walked into the small room. It was surprisingly well furnished, and much larger than Tyrion would have expected. It somehow fit a four poster bed, a dresser, and vented hearth, as well as a moderately large table in the back. A large table currently seating the Bastard and the Princess.

 

Jon was looking down intently as if the table grain was somehow the story of Damon the Young Dragon, his face redder than Myrcella's gown. Myrcella, on the other hand, was staring straight ahead, breathing heavily, giving the impression that she stole a sweat she wasn't supposed to and being confronted with it by an adult.

 

"So... what's going on here?" Tyrion asked. and was surrounded by a torrent of yelling from both Jaime and Myrcella. Jaime's voice overcame Myrcella's, and soon it was quiet but for him. "Varys and the Stark Girls told me that they have been fucking, in this very room!"

 

Tyrion looked at the two alleged fuckers closer and noticed the red splotches that were dotted around both of them. Either a leech found it's way into their tubs, or they had been fucking. Tyrion had assumed the latter. "Jaime, did you bring wine? I'll need Wine before we start."

 

A glass was poured, placed on the table, and soon Tyrion sat on the bench. "So tell me, how did this start?"

 

Myrcella, always the Princess, began first, "Well, it was when we started leaving Winterfell. We were both a little tipsy, and I... well I just sort of found him. I was wondering the castle with half my dress hanging off, and we just stumbled into a guest room and decided to use it."

 

Jon's face somehow found a way to get more red. "You mean to say," Jaime Lannister seemed to growl, "The bastard took advantage of my drunk niece?"

 

It was Myrcella's turn to turn red, though she seemed to only get the briefest pink to her cheeks before explaining, "Of course not! We didn't even sleep together then. We just sort of... talked. It was rather nice, actually. He spoke of bastardy, I spoke of princesses, and we seemed to get along." Myrcella snatched the wine cup off the table and took a small sip, looking identical to her mother, "And then Queen Cersei told me that I was supposed to get betrothed. I needed an arm to cry on, and then we... well then we slept together."

 

Tyrion grabbed the cup back, drank it, refilled, and drank again.  _Oh, the gods are blessed to give me this gift._ Political intriuge, sex, alcoholism, and most importantly, pissing off Cersei. It was practically Tyrion's name day. Of course, that didn't excuse the fact that it was his niece who was participating in the 'sex' part of the equation.

 

Apparently, the story wasn't finished. "When we came back to King's Landing, Varys... well he caught us. But instead he showed me these tunnels, and soon we had found our own little secret. And we've done that, every day for the past three months," Myrcella finished, clearly not correctly judging what Jaime wanted to hear.

 

"Jaime, what a case you brought me in for. On one hand, I can keep this beautiful little love affair a secret, and watch it fizzle away as the Princess is wed, or I can tell Cersei, and see her expression. It's like choosing between Wildfire or a Candle. Each will burn, and each so,  _so_ very satisfying. Why it can almost make a little devil like me burst!"

 

Tyrion straitened himself up and reached around in his pocket. "Here, Roberts for Telling, Dragons for Secret." He flipped the coin.


	5. 5: Robb I

Being the Lord Hands son was a mixed bag.

 

On one hand, he got to sit and watch some of the most important meetings in the world, as well as influence them to his own wishes. 

 

On the other, he was forced to spend half his time in either the council chamber or with his father. Robb personally loved his father, but his Father was of the idea that if you want something done right, you should do it. So Robb's "Job" was mainly to sit in silence as his father quietly read aloud. The worst part, however, was the other councilmen. Renly was a braggart and petty, Baelish a schemer and filled with hate, Pycelle was as weak as he was old, and probably a rat for half the city lords in the realm, and the Eunuch, with his pasty, powdered skin. Ser Barristan was the only man Robb could relate too, but he was rarely on the council, only coming in form urgent or important meetings.

 

Leaving Robb to look out a window and sigh. He saw Jon in the training yard, about to go join him, when he saw Jaime Lannister walk up to him. It was a brief discussion, with only a minor waiving of arms, before Jaime Lannister sharply turned on his heels and began walking to Maegor's. Jon followed.  _Strange_. They entered and exited a moment later, with the Princess. "Father? May I please go to the Practice Yard?"

 

"Aye, just don't get too hurt. The tourney's tomorrow," Lord Stark said, not averting his eyes from his book.

 

Robb followed behind the strange party, bizarrely into the Dungeons. Complete silence, all the way. Ser Jaime led the party into a room and had done a complete 180 from the door to head back the way they had come. Robb hardly had enough time to jump into an Alcove. Luckily, the damn southern fashion did have one use. All the soft fabric made him near silent on the flagstones. After he gauged long enough that Ser Jaime was gone, Robb snuck over to the door, propping it slightly open.

 

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. He's going to kill me"

 

"No, hang on. Shut up, we got this.  **I** got this. Just keep quiet and follow my lead. Trust me."

 

"Damn it, I knew we shouldn't have... again!" Jon had whispered at that so that Robb didn't hear what he said.

 

"I'll just say that we didn't fuck, I just fucked you, better?¨ At that, Robb felt his knees buckle, as he pushed the door open completely.  _Holy shit. My brother is sleeping with the Princess!"_

 

"Gods, Robb, what the hell are you doing here?" Robb looked up to see his brother, staring at him from a bench in the corner. 

 

"Oh hey, Jon. Princess Myrcella, a pleasure to see you. Quick question, what the hell is going on?"

 

"Well I've been sleeping with the princess for 3 months, and today we gave each other too many hickeys, and Sansa noticed during tea time and then we tried to tell the king, but Ser Oakheart interrupted us but than Sansa told Jaime Lannister and now he's going to kill me," Jon spoke probably a bit too fast, as Robb struggled to understand all of that.

 

"See! See! That's why  _I_ should do the talking!" Myrcella huffily said, throwing her arms up.

 

"Okay... so if this isn't some poppy induced dream, and this is really happening," Robb said slowly, "Maybe, honesty is the best thing here."

 

"Thank you, Robb! See Ella, he agrees with me!"

 

"You fucking northerners, ugh, fine. We'll do it your way."

 

"-What will the whores think if I forget them?" A voice from the hallway called.

 

"Oh shit, Jaime's back. RObb, get under the bed."

 

Robb complied, silently shifing his far too large body under. He had barely settled when the door opened.


	6. 6: Tyrion II

"Oh come on, sweet brother, don't you want to know your future Nephew-in-law?" Tyrion asked from the bench he sat in.

 

Jaime pretended that he couldn't hear, as he sat with a whetstone traveling up and down the hard edge of the sword, the light reflecting off of the gilded steel, creating a glare. A glare that was reflecting in Tyrion's eyes. "Tyrion, it's bad enough I can't tell Cersei about..." Jaime looked around to make sure no one was watching as if he could spot one of Varys' spies, " _the sexy,_  but to take the boy on as my squire? That's too much, even for me."

 

"Think of it this way, Jaime, you train him to be a Jouster Extraordinaire, he wins the Joust as a mystery knight, crowns Myrcella Queen of Love and Beauty, than reveals himself, thus saving us explaining their secret relationship," Tyrion let Jaime think before continuing, "We both win in this scenario, all you have to do is train the boy to Joust."

 

Tyrion tried to make it sound simplistic like it was so easy as just teaching the poor boy. Not saying it in plain terms, "Spend the next 2 months drilling this stranger screwing your Neice in all the ways of chivalry, despite him having little experience, and having a disdainful look at Knighthood," made things less difficult for Tyrion. However, he did have his final victory card if Jaime did refuse.

 

"Or I'll tell Robert that Snow wants to joust, and the Royal Highness will command it himself."

 

Tyrion adjusted his seating, so his eyes were free of the glare, while Jaime looked up at him, eyes narrowing, "You wouldn't dare."

 

"Oh, I would. I'm an Imp, remember?"

 

"You bastard."

 

"I'll tell the boy to meet you here tomorrow morning."

 

* * *

 

"Lord Stark? May I borrow your son?"

 

Maybe Tyrion hadn't actually thought up the plan as well as he thought. Of course, the boy would agree, Tyrion did have plenty of Blackmail, but the question of Eddard of House Stark agreeing was still in the air. Of course, Tyrion wouldn't be where he was if he wasn't charismatic, and talking to that Ice Cube of a Man is certainly easier than to Varys, Littlefinger, and Cersei.

 

Robb Stark answered the door. With the Tyrell's arriving within the month, and the Tourney in two, the Hand and his Son were frequently spending dinner in wither Small Council chamber or their Solar's for extended periods of times. It broke Tyrion's blackened heart when he realized that he was Robb's only hope of freeing himself from the monotony. 

 

"I am terribly sorry Robb, but I meant your brother."

 

Blood rushed to the young Stark's face, and Tyrion felt guilt for a moment before the small voice in the back of his head whispered  _'The Blush isn't for Himself...'_ In the name of the Seven, he knew too!

 

"Oh... um, well Jon's in the upper solar..."

 

Tyrion knew the poor lad would crack, and decided he didn't want to deal with that at the moment, so instead he left as quickly as his legs could take him. The Hand's stairs were bad, by most conditions, but they worked well enough for the Dwarf. As Tyrion neared the top, he began to hear low muttering.

 

"No, she's never brought him up. Yes, never."

 

Another voice, this one much higher in pitch, responded, "Besides, Jon and I both think he's awful."

 

It became incredibly clear to Tyrion that he  _did_ know exactly what they were talking about, and although he agreed with the higher voice, Tyrion was associated with that awful child. Tyrion climbed the final steps, before appearing before the other Stark children. There was the older one, Sansa, he believed than Jon brooding in the corner, as if he wasn't there and was not fond of the situation, and than the third child, who could only be the owner of the higher voice. The higher voice was the one talking.

 

"Sansa, if you want to wed a good, strong man, for some reason, find some northern boy, and leave Jon and me alone."

 

"You two have no right to get mad at me for southern affections!" Sansa, whose face matched her hair in coloring, shouted, "Especially you, Jon! You have rolled in sheets with southern girls!"

 

Jon, who looked  _even more_ uncomfortable to be there threw his hands up in frustration. ' _Looks like all the Stark Boys are uncomfortable at the moment,'_ Tyrion mused. He decided to make himself known in the age-old tradition of throwing something heavy on the floor. In this scenario, he went with his empty golden goblet. The clanging was louder than he intended, but at least the results were clear. All of them were staring at the Imp, with looks of confusion, shock, and hate, though he assumed the hate was for someone  _else_ in the room.

 

"Good morrow," Tyrion said, whilst grabbing another glass from a bench, "And a pleasure to make your acquaintance. What's your name, small one?" Tyrion did not have the chance to call someone "small one" very often, and he was going to be damned if he didn't use it when he had the chance.

 

"Arya. You're the Imp." 

 

"It is my strength and cure. Regardless, I've come for your brother. Snow, go to the secondary tourney grounds," Jon had a look of confusion on his face, before Tyrion remembered that he was a stranger to the area, "On the south bank of the Blackwater, you can't miss it."

 

Tyrion turned to leave when he noticed his path was blocked by a Gargoyle that seemed to have moved several paces from where, for all rights, it should have been. "Jon, come quickly, I have three hours till my Mother needs me, we have time." a sweet voice whispered

 

"Good morrow, my grace," Tyrion said, his eyes adjusting slightly to the open passage, to see his niece, very much naked, holding a bottle of Arbor Gold. When Myrcella heard Tyrion's voice, she did her best to cover up, while Tyrion laughed, leaving the room. O,h how he loved to play matchmaker.


	7. 7: Jon II

"Again"

 

Jon silently cursed to himself. If he heard anyone else say "Again" he would find it difficult to not cleave their head off. Maybe that was Ser Jaime's goal, piss of Jon until he could finally beat him. Not that it would happen soon. Jon always would have thought the word "Arrogant" would fit perfectly with the cutting smiles of Jaime Lannister, and this was only further cemented when he claimed that he would win even if Jon had live steel. Which was, in fact, true. Jaime Lannister was, without a doubt, a damn good swordsman. Didn't mean Jon had to like it.

 

He stood up, this time placing himself in a defensive stance, his back slightly bent, his left hand on the pommel of his blade, extending it so it faced Ser Jaime. Ser Jaime, who seemed completely unconcerned about a stance Jon thought was fairly good, loosely pulled out his blade, before doing an arc, catching Jon's blade on a downward swing, almost knocking it from his hand.  _Damn, he's fast_ , Jon repeated to himself for what must have been the thousandth time. Despite being in his 30s, he was quicker than the spriest of young men, and it was all Jon could do to keep Jaime's arguably lazy swipes away. 

 

The song of steel clashed throughout the empty tourney fields, Jaime's blade perpetually going toward Jon's shoulders, so much so that Jon began to pull in with this arms, so they were touching his ribs. "Extend" was the brief word of guidance Jaime gave, and Jon followed suit, pushing out with his shoulders. "Strike," Jaime said, before knocking a defensive stance. 

 

Now here was a conundrum, either Jon could strike, as told and be thoroughly repelled, or he could stay in a defensive state. Jon decided neither seemed like a good decision, so he opted for neither, instead choosing to give a low swipe towards Jaime's thigh. Of course, Jaime than caught the blade with his own, and a powerful upwards thrust later, and Jon found himself very much disarmed. 

 

"If you won't listen to my advice than we'll be done for the day."

 

Jon made a move to change Jaime's mind, only to see Jaime had left.

 

"Tomorrow, Snow."

 

* * *

 

 

Jon began to notice how he could last around five minutes against Jaime when the Tyrells finally appeared. Jon had on a Northern Charger, having already broken two lances that day when he saw a dust bloom on the horizon. 

 

Jon had even started to feel like he might have had a chance, given the terrible lot that surrounded King's Landing, with only the Hound and Mountain being his concern, but all thoughts of victory were squashed like Arbor grapes. 

 

"Put your helmet down kid, we're still practicing"

 

* * *

 

The first two official tilts of his were laughable. Jon, in his black plate paid for by the Imp, versus hedge knights who wore only gambeson and light mail. Personally, Jon would have preferred to trade gear, as he was far to hot for the South, and Jon had only worn it thrice before the first day of the tourney. Regardless of the outfit, Jon found it a bit  _too_ easy against those hedge knights, until he was up against household knights. The shift in skill was as a novice to adept, and Jon was sure any one of those knights could beat a northerner. Of course, he was proven wrong when beat the three of them. Jon had been tempted to visit the medical tent but decided that sitting under a tree would be far more comfortable.

 

"Excuse me, Ser?" A small, pointed faced lad asked, tapping Jon on the shoulder, the black plate slightly burning the lad's hand. 

 

"Aye?"  
  


"You've been requested at the Lion Pavillion, ser."

 

Jon sighed heavily, before standing up and following the boy. Of course, Jon probably didn't need to follow the kid, it was fairly easy to see the Lannister tent. Gods, he loved Myrcella, but her family had a flare for the dramatics and a golden, glittering tent was a bit much. Jon doubted Jaime was going to give him a pep talk, so Jon entered, curious as to why. The way it seemed was around 5'7, had golden hair, and was in a tightly fitting golden dress with onyx jewelry. 

 

Myrcella didn't seem to hear him enter, so he stood quietly for a moment or two, taking her in. She was tall for most girls, most likely due to her father, and definitely fairer. Her skin was smooth and blemishless as if she was free of puberty, and her hair was golden and wavy, curling nicely around the small of her back. Her backside, much like the rest of her, was perfect, and Jon found it difficult to not undress her with his eyes. He felt the metal of his plate clatter against itself as Jon felt a slight stirring. He decided that now was the time to make his presence known.

 

"My lady," said in a mock southern tone. 

 

Myrcella turned around, and that made all the weeks effort worth it. Her smile was radiant, and her green-blue eyes seemed to glow with excitement. Her perfect jawline curled into a smile as she looked at Jon. "Ser Knight," she responded, in an equally silly southern accent. She reached into her gown, and for a moment Jon thought she would rip off her garments before she pulled out a small golden ribbon. "If you are to be my mystery knight, you'll need your lady's favor, won't you?"

 

 _Gods,_ Jon thought,  _I should have asked Sansa how being a Knight works_.

 

"Look, not to ruin the moment, but do I tie this around my lance or..." Jon said, internally cursing himself for ruining the mood.

 

"My my, I forgot that this was your first tournament. Here, wrap it around your arm instead." Myrcella responded. Instead of handing the ribbon, however, she walked closer to Jon, so that her chest was up against his, while she wrapped it herself.

 

"I wish I wasn't in this damn armor right now" Jon whispered into her ear.

 

"Easy, Direwolf, you still have to win."

 

"With your favor, it will be impossible not to"

 

* * *

 

 

_Well, so much for that sentiment_

 

Jon had made to the point where he was with the well-known knights, even going against Ser Balon Swann, but that just meant things kept getting worse in worse, which meant one thing the next round, The Hound.

 

Jon's Lance broke the first tilt, and the third and fourth run through. Sandor Clegane found his weapon broken twice as well. Jon had managed to take glancing blows, but the two full hit he received almost broke his arm, and if it weren't for his saddle's arch at the end, he would have completely fallen over.

 

It was the sixth tilt, and Jon was out of breath, sore, and frankly tired. He was fully ready to simple turn heel when Jon looked up and saw Sandor Clegane sitting high and mighty in the saddle compared to Jon's slumped form. When something miraculous happened. When the two met each other, Sandor Clegane held his shield far away from Jon and aimed his Lance too high. Far too high for any experienced jouster. Jon, however, hit Sandor below the ribs, putting his fullback into the hit, and was satisfied if not slightly confused by Sandor dropping his reins and falling off. 

 

Jon was speechless. Somehow, a Northern Bastard had defeated one of the top jousters in the Realm. After the joust, Jon himself in a state of minor euphoria. He barely noticed that his brother was talking with some Reach girl, or that Sansa was nowhere to be seen, or Tyrion and Sandor chatting quietly in the shade of the stands. 

 

When the Knight of Flowers finally went, the first of his tilts Jon actually got a chance to watch the famous southerner ride. The boy's light frame on a swift charger was promised to be a match against any man, but of course, he was put up against a Mountain. The Mountain, to be specific. The Hound, who seemed to be fully recovered from Jon's blow was quick to jump on the ground after their joust, quickly matching blades with someone who could replace an Oxe in a race. The Mountains wide, angry swings were matched with the Hound's quick, powerful ones before Robert finally cried to stop. 

 

Than Ser Jaime was up. Him against the Knight of Flowers.

 

When all the smiles died from Jon's face when the Gilded Lion was knocked flat on his ass by a prim and proper child in flowered steel. Which meant Jon would have to ride against an experienced jouster. Shit.

 

* * *

 

 

Jon hit his heels deeper into the horse's flank, urging it for more speed. Jon was crouched down low in his saddle, his hair, slick from sweat, drooped into his eye, but he couldn't reach up and touch it. If he spared even moments fought for something that wasn't this, he would lose.

 

Loras seemed to ride in a lackadaisical fashion, sitting slouched in the Saddle, in a way that left himself open, before quickly jabbing down against Jon's shield, almost glancing into Jon's chest. Jon decided at that moment that Steel  _did_ have an advantage.

 

He circled around, before charging back down, this time sitting up normally, barely making an attempt with his lance, instead purposefully catching it with his shield, and bashing it from the side. Jon could only imagine the cocky little pricks face when he lost control of the lance, and dropped against his horse's backside, almost knocking him off. Loras received a new spear, and the two were off again. Jon had a semblance of a plan this time.

 

Reachman Lances were, for the most part, longer than other lances by a fairly large margin, which Jon wanted to use for his favor. After the beating Sandor gave him, Jon doubted that he could last 6 tilts again, so he went aggressive. Jon was easily the heavier of the two, and stronger as well. This time, when Loras neared, Jon grabbed his shield, and gave a good strong downward hack of his shield on the Lance, cracking three feet off, and giving Loras a moments hesitation. Hesitation Jon used to stand in his saddle and jammed downwards with his Lance with all the weight that he good.

 

Jon heard a groan of a horse, the roar of the crowd, then the feeling of warm earth, and his helmet banging on the ground. Jon, groggily, looked over to see that Loras was, at the least, knocked down too, his wrist only twisted.

 

Jon wasn't entirely sure what happened next. King Robert talked a bit too loudly for Jon's preference, though he couldn't exactly hear what was said, before some squire brought in another Horse, helped Jon into it, and handed him another Lance. Jon held the lance out, awkwardly, accepting the rose crown at the end of the Lance, before galloping.  _What am I doing again? Oh right, I won. I need to crown Myrcella_. Jon did a small lap around the ground, before ending up in front of Myrcella. He held out the Lance, a bit clumsier than he would have liked before the crown seemed to swoon as Jon, finally, removed his helmet. 

 

Groggily, he dropped his helmet to the ground, with a loud thundering noise, which Jon couldn't tell if it was in his head or out of it. Jon felt a little woozy, and decided now would be a good time to fall asleep.

 

And thus the champion of the Hand's Tourney passed out from a concussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers roughly 2 months, so not the next chapter but the one after will take place during those Months. Jon didn't really do much except sleep with Myrcella and train, so I thought it would be more convenient to skip


	8. In the Dark Below

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Victory of a Mystery Knight has some ripples.

"You know, my friend, some folk are even calling him to be the greatest knight to ever live," said the overweight Magister, "Even I heard tales of his riding. He bested two of the greatest knights to ever live, in his very first tourney. Quite impressive."

 

"Less impressive if you were there. He barely beat the Hound and beat Loras on a tie. Both of the boys had their horse's knocked out from underneath, and there is nothing Robert likes more than an underdog. Him almost immediately falling unconscious can't have helped either," the lyseni responded, "I would wager that if I was taught by the great Ser Jaime for two months, even I could win."

 

"Regardless, this could be, important, for us. The Stark Bastard defeating half the kingdom's knights," the Pentoshi retorted, "And the boy could be useful too."

 

"Oh, if you could have seen it, my friend. Wearing black steel, defeating all other opponents, and placing a crown of flowers on the forbidden beauty's head. I truly wish you could have seen the Tourney of Harrenhall," Varys responded, "Of course, last week all of the smile flared to life, instead of sunk to shock. And Rhaegar would never fall off of his horse. But this is a story for the commons, and we both know how easy it is to twist a story like this."

 

"You see my friend, this is why you are the brains behind this! I had never thought... this could give Young Griff a line of legitimacy..."

 

"But only if the bastard agrees. As far as we know, however, he could be just what poor good old Lord Ned said he was. All we need to do is give a loud and clever enough singer what we know. That Eddard Stark went south, to find his sister guarded by three Kingsguard, and came back with a baby. How difficult do you think it will be to convince them that this baby belonged to his poor dear sister?" The vile smirk on Varys' face was practically fiendish in the orange torchlight.

 

"But not while Robert is alive," the Pentoshi said, "Robert wouldn't abide by a song disgracing his dear Lyanna."

 

"There are plenty of other players in King's Landing, it shouldn't be difficult to convince another..." Varys was interrupted by what sounded like a moaning noise, coming from the chamber he had shown Myrcella. But her bastard was still in a sick bed, unless... "It seems Princess Myrcella is a bit of a harlot."

 

The two men began to walk quietly, anxiously and quietly. Once the two were next to the door did Varys look through the keyhole. ANd quickly did he pull  _out_ of that keyhole.

 

"Good gods, it seems like the bastard isn't the only Stark child fornicating in this castle."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for being gone! I was out for two weeks for a wedding, and the other shit, I apologize! I'll try to pump out some more chapters


	9. 8: Margaery

"Oh gods, my father's going to kill me. And your father, and your brothers, and my sisters. Oh gods, oh gods."

 

While in the actual act Robb Stark had seemed pleasant enough, the post-sex seemed to be the problem for him. Personally, Margaery found the whole act of sexual intercourse to be rather enjoyable, and that the whole stigma around it seemed unwarranted. Why would the Gods forbid something like this?

 

"Oh gods, I think I have to marry you now. Dear gods." Robb stammered, for what seemed like the fourth time. She didn't quite understand his thoughts about this. After all, he somehow knew where this secret sex chamber was, the chambered attached to his tower, and he seemed rather proficient too. She supposed this is what happens when Virgins drink wine too strong on a tourney. What was that phrase her grandmother said? 'Nothing like a tourney to get the blood hot?' Something like that, although it was probably a bit wittier coming from the Queen of Thorns. 

 

"Good thing neither of us are betrothed," she said while pouring an arbor gold into a crystalline cup. Truly, this bedroom was incredibly well stocked. She took a swig and handed it to her soon-to-be husband if his attempt at a sentence was to be believed. "So should I tell my brother first, or yours?"

 

Robb Stark did not seem to enjoy the notion, and so he took the rest of the Arbor Gold, as if a single bottle could get him thoroughly drunk enough to  _not_ deal with his problems. Or maybe it was, he definitely didn't seem like he could hold his liquor too well. "My brother it is." Loras wouldn't tell immediately, she knew that much, and she could probably get Lord Renly's support through that binding as well. A marriage binding more than half the country would be advantageous, even her father could see that. But his father...

 

"Gods, first Jon and Myrcella, and now this! My father will take my bloody head!"

 

"Wait... what was that about Princess Myrcella?" 

 

And so Robb Stark, King's Landing's worst gossip, told Margaery all about the Princess' sex life. And Margaery's plan to get away from the most sadistic prince since Aerys the second became much, much more difficult. Stupid fucking Starks. 


	10. 9: Joffrey I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get used to Joffrey not knowing Arya's name, because I'm sticking with it.

These last few months fucking sucked.

 

First, the family had to visit Winterfell, where Myrcella had the audacity to say that both Stark boys, including the stupid Bastard, were better swordsmen than Joffrey. And they didn't even have named swords, and if they did it was probably something boring like "Winter" or "Wolf" or "Snowflake." Worse still, all Father did was talk that man Ned and the Bastard. He didn't even care that Joffrey had been the one to kill the Otter on their hunt. Granted, they were hunting Elk, but it was still impressive.

 

Second, that Aryan, or whatever the hell her name was, had her gross dog attack him, in front of his betrothed no less, followed almost immediately by Sansa crying because  _her_ dog was the one being killed. What kind of wimp cries over a dog? Joffrey himself had killed his first hunting hound, although Sandor had held the beast down for him, and his father smacked the shit out of him for it, but the point still stood. 

 

Third, Myrcella was always having tea with Sansa, so he never got a chance to show off his new sword, the replacement one, because Aaron threw the last one in the river. And, Joffrey never got to talk with Myrcella. Truly, he never really  _enjoyed_ talking with Myrcella, it was always something about this new book she read, or about something the dumb maester had told her as if it was interesting.

 

Fourth, instead of Joffrey making his debut joust at the Hand's tourney, as he specifically demanded from his Mother, instead it was the  _same bastard_. Worse still, Joffrey heard some squire talking about how they had seen Uncle Jaime training the Bastard. Not his own Nephew, but some baseborn brute from the North. Joffrey, for the life of him, was furious that the same bastard had ended up winning the tourney. And that he had  _the audacity_ to give the roses to  _his_ sister.

 

And finally, the famed Rose of Highgarden was heading to King's Landing, and if his mother was to be believed,  _specifically_ for him to fuck her. Yet instead of going Hawking with him, or doing what betrothed people normally do together, she was off with Robb Stark.

 

All of Joffrey's problems were because of Starks. Avril Stark embarrassed him, Robb Stark took his betrothed, Ned Stark took his dad, Sansa took one of two people he could actually stomach talking to, and the Bastard took his glory. And he could only hurt one of them without repercussion.

 

"Dog!" Joffrey shouted into the hallway, which was followed shortly by the clacking of mail as Sandor Clegane appeared in the Hallway.

 

  
"What do you want?"

 

"Get me some Armor"

 

A small wheeze, which quickly resonated into a full laugh filled the hallway of the Red Keep. 

 

"Dog! Stop laughing at me and get my Armor! I'll tell Mother!"

**Author's Note:**

> If this gets enough support, I will probably make it into a series


End file.
